


A Glass of Whiskey

by GuardianQwerty



Category: NCIS
Genre: Childhood, Death, Drinking, Emotions, Murder, Past Events, Reminiscing, Whiskey - Freeform, ducky - Freeform, murder case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:50:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6160174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianQwerty/pseuds/GuardianQwerty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A recently closed case has ducky thinking of his past and the influences that make him who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glass of Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Guys!
> 
> This is my first Fanfiction. It isn't too bad could do with more work however I hope you enjoy it. Please leave a rating and any comments so I can improve my writing for the better, don't mind constructive criticism all is welcome. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He had always thought Jethro had been quite an odd fellow drinking bourbon in his basement at all hours of the night. So it was a strange for him to find himself in his own study, drinking whiskey and sifting through old photos. 

Their last case had been about a young Petty Officer who had been killed after someone inserted a needle-type knitting rod into his tight belt. It wasn’t until this young man removed his belt that he bled out in his room. The slow death meant the killer had an hour to get to the other side of the base and commence work before the Petty Officer died. However, by working with Abby they managed to procure the exact time of execution and death, which lead to the arrest of an Officer, who was in the same Petty Officer’s unit. Turns out this Officer had been taking high amounts of metabolic steroids and his subordinate threatened to turn him in unless he stopped. 

It had always fascinated him the reasons people killed and why they were obsessed upon the idea of going down the road of murder and not just having a ‘good ol’ brawl’ over it. However it is what it is, nothing could change that. People would continue to kill as long as the reason was good enough. Though the fact that the young man had a four year old daughter and a wife of ten years, meant that it was more difficult to overcome the case as it reminded him of another time when he wore a young man’s clothes. 

It had been a fairly gruesome murder and had left the family widowed and lost, this family had been very close to his own and the father in the family was more of a father figure to him than anyone he had known. This man by the name of Alistair Blackwood had been killed because of his threats towards a certain mayor who had been spending his time doing some ‘creative accounting’ regarding the community’s funds. Mr Blackwood had always prided himself on the need of being honest and trustworthy, so when he had found out he gave the mayor 24 hours to turn himself in, before he would report him, to say the least he didn’t make it past the 18 hour mark. He was discovered skewered by a large tooth pick like object, with multiple stab wounds. Least to say the Mayor wasn’t given a trial, not in those days anyway. 

Now that he thought of it that event was probably a main reason he became a medical examiner after his time in the core. But the death had hit him hard, he had hid himself in his room for three whole days surviving only on the food he had stashed under the floorboards, he only really came out when he ran out and because if he didn’t, he’s actual father had threatened to knock down the door with a sledgehammer. The funeral was a classic Scotsman’s day, kilts everywhere and the bagpipes to add to the sombre mood, Donald had wanted to carry the coffin, but his father said it was a job for the family. After the funeral the Blackwood family moved away, though Alistair’s wife gave him a penny and the photo they had taken together a few months earlier. 

The edges of the photo showed rips and stains and the seven people present in the photo were all rather happy looking. He’s father had his arm wrapped around his mother, while he was in the front row with the two children of Mr and Mrs Blackwood. It had been Christmas and they had spent many days holidaying at a lodge that seemed to not understand the idea of personnel room. Ducky had been squeezed in a room with the other two and couldn’t stand it, so one night he snuck out and went to sleep on the couch only to be caught by Alistair. They ended up talking for a few hours about his father, and the understanding of how difficult it was to be a Dad. And when he was tired he had fallen asleep in his arms and was carried back to the bed he was sharing.

Ah, those were the days. He could never really get the death out of his head, so the Petty Officer’s death only resurfaced buried memories, to which had led to Ducky’s lonely venture of drinking whiskey in the study of his small house. He packed the photos away as well as the penny -which had been a Blackwood family heirloom- back into a compact tin. He was tired and the depressant qualities of alcohol had caused him to feel only pain to himself. He drained his glass and left the room for his bed in which he sat and stared at the wall momentarily before overcoming the need for sleep and lying down. He would worry about his pain in the morning, much like he did with everything else painful.


End file.
